


enemies to friends to lovers speedrun edition leet hacks wow

by grimatrix (gigalomancy)



Category: Hiveswap
Genre: Assassination, Comfort, F/M, First Meetings, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, dajas a FUCKING nerd and konyyl is tired tm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-01
Updated: 2020-03-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22978720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gigalomancy/pseuds/grimatrix
Summary: Your name is Konyyl Okimaw, and your murder attempt got fucking thrown to the wayside by the one motherfucker who can handle you.
Relationships: Azdaja Knelax/Konyyl Okimaw
Comments: 5
Kudos: 23





	enemies to friends to lovers speedrun edition leet hacks wow

**Author's Note:**

> its 1am im 2 lazy to clarify shit. this is unedited atm if theres weird shit im evening it out later haha
> 
> not much to say here for this one, lil clarity w trolls havin hyperflexible ears + tails and golds specifically having dual ones, bluh nd bluh shits explained. azdajas also misophonic ig cause rights babeyyyyyyy

Your eyes track the streets. Undergrowth scratches at your sides and face and fucking everything as you move closer, and you have to remind yourself that this is the most inconspicuous option for completing this assassination. You squint as clouds move out of the way to reveal a blinding pink light, only accentuated by a far harsher lime. 

Your name is Konyyl Okimaw and regularly? You’re not one for strategy. You prefer testing your luck with how far you can go without a single thought. But this time, your attack has to be precise. Again, much to your displeasure. 

You’re hunting a highblood target tonight, and those fuckers aren’t the easiest to take down. After some information hunting you’ve concluded they hang around this emptier part of the city at this time of day, though you can’t put a goddamn claw as to why. All that’s here is an abandoned park, desolate and worn, surrounded by a forest most unpleasant. Not the nicest space to chill, in your opinion.

Footsteps sound in the distance. You prepare yourself, muscles tensing and your breath entirely halted. Soon enough the indigoblood breaks into view. They’re dressed casually, diverging from the usual formality of their caste that you know. They’re busy talking to someone on their palmhusk, and look rather infuriated. They start to yell, walking closer and closer to where you are with snappy, exaggerated steps.

Finally, they stop walking. And it's almost as if lady luck has it in store for you - they turn their back, exposing it fully to you. They’re completely distracted, too. The only movements they make is infuriated gesturing and yelling, completely unrelated to you.

It’s too easy.

You’re ready to lurch when suddenly, the troll collapses and lets out a shocked scream. You almost fall over, but somehow keep your composure. 

As the unpleasantly tangy burning smell fills your nostrils and an annoying, low hum settles itself in your ears, you realise what you’ve got on your hands. A psionic. 

Various shades of blue encase and raise the indigoblood, crackling and hissing like spitting fire as the highblood protests. They’re shouting into the distance, looking for their attacker.

You’re still trying to make sense of what just happened when the answer falls in your lap. Or rather, presents itself in the form of the most embarrassing display you’ve ever seen.

“I apologise for cutting your conversation short, I really do. It seems like there was some important business going on there.”

You crane your head to look past the indigoblood, trying to match up the pathetically arrogant voice and its accompanying orchestra of laser hissing with an appearance.

“Heh, no matter. I’ll take the issue out of your hands in just a second,” they pause to chuckle to themselves dramatically. Due to their shrill and awkward voice, it’s not as intimidating as they probably think it is. “I should thank you for the remoteness of your hideout here, also. This was one of my easiest jobs to date. You were charged for a pretty high price, even more than a regular member of your caste. Intriguing, to say the least, especially since you didn’t even present that much of a challenge to me.”

Maybe it’s the psionics, or maybe it’s the talking (and holy fucking hell is there a _lot_ of it), but the indigoblood can’t even get a single word in. Just a mere few seconds after the person finishes talking, the psionic aura encasing your target flashes white and their corpse falls to the ground. 

So much for a quick night kill, you guess.

You can’t leave yet, though. You still have to wait out your escape. So, you stay exactly where you are, now angling your ears to investigate the area for any coming drones. You’re positively fuming at this fucker for taking your kill - you fucking saw your account take the request, it confirmed it and all. It makes no fucking sense. Either the callpost got fucked and allowed both of you to claim a single target, or your client was one of those fuckers who liked fucking with people and withdrew commissions last second. If it was the latter, you might actually still get to draw blood tonight. That’s the one good thing.

Another alternative, you realise, is that they knew you’d be here and deliberately came to sabotage your kill. They must’ve done a pretty shit job, if that’s the case, considering they literally did your job for you. Your breath hitches as you wonder for a second that maybe, just maybe, they’re aware of your presence and this was just a ruse. Maybe they knew you were here all along.

 _Clearly, they didn’t, or they would’ve probably found you already_ , the rational part of your brain thinks. That makes you relax, for the most part. You’ll most likely leave without a single peril. Goldbloods don’t have the hearing range your caste does, and they were probably distracted by the slaughtering, too. You’re not concerned about them finding you. 

Even if they do, well, you guess you can do the fighty thing.

You carefully shift your position, leaning outwards to get a better view of the park. You’re practically brushing yourself against the brush (hah) at this point. 

This hiding place was...bad. You’ll admit that. 

Thistles rake your hands, and you’re thankful as fuck you’re wearing gloves right now. You drag your tail in, certain it’s got scratched by the way it stings. That must’ve happened when you were caught off guard by the psionic. Thankfully you’d grabbed a loose-fitting coat before setting out so you needn’t worry about unnecessary danger to your body. Your tail remains to hurt like a bitch though. Gritting your teeth and letting out a silent huff of exasperation, you look forwards again.

That was when you got your first look at him.

He had long, messy hair tightened into a ponytail, flowing behind him dramatically. It was slightly on end, probably due to the psionics. He adorned a yellow jacket that looked a little too small for him, barely even reaching his waist. His black spiked boots thumped on the uneven, cracked ground as he shook and wavered in place, as if about to be unconscious. He looks around 6 sweeps old, the same age as you. You’re certain you could just run past while he’s regaining his strength, if you just stay out of- _fuck_.

That was when it all went to hell. 

When he locked gazes with you. 

Straight through the thicket. As if it wasn’t even there to protect you.

You see him draw in an arduous breath before levitating himself up. Blue shines around him like drops of dew, for just a second before shattering. He plunges down again onto even ground with a renewed energy, flashing you a smirk. But you can taste the fucking uncertainty in this fuckers face. You could from a mile away. 

It’s clear to you, now. 

He’s a fucking loser who acts cool and who’s only threatening because of his psionics. Classic fucking goldblood self-righteousnes. Just _looking_ at him makes you want to challenge him to a duel and put him in his place. You could probably punch him once and break his entire skeletal structure. Fuckit, you could punt him and that’d be the end of that. 

Point is, you’d absolutely demolish him. 

For once, however, you decide to use your (usually dormant) braincells and turn heel to make a run for the woods. 

You can just get out of this without even having to get your hands dirty - as infuriating as it is that you didn’t get to do jack shit. A psionic did your job for you, and every assassin knows they’re unparalleled with cleanliness. It’s cheating, in a sense, the way the experienced ones can just kill in an instant without a trace left. 

You stop, suddenly. Fuck. If a psionic can just kill you faster than you can shout a vile curse at them, why didn’t that one? 

Ugh, it’s stupid to ponder. Thinking’s stupid in general.

He probably just got lucky with the indigo kill. Fuck knows how well highbloods fare against goldblood mindfuckery.

A faint, foul smell suddenly drags itself to your nose. It’s a mixture of moist and sharp, profoundly pungent in the worst way possible. A telltale sign of coming rain.

Fuck. Not like this. Not when you’re stranded in the middle of nowhere. Far too far removed from any nearby shelter.

You turn around. Your makeshift plan is to scamper as fast as possible to return to the city again. You can risk an encounter with the fuckass, as long as your skin isn’t literally burning off.

At least the forest’s dense. Not that it’d do much, though. Still, cracks of fast-disappearing light peek through the leaves where you walk, and you’re not counting on branches and their thin layer of coverage being all that protective. It’s quickly growing darker, darker and yet darker. Your posture loosens as you start to add deliberate momentum to your jog. Dry dirt crackles at your feet and lighting crashes close to you, creating some sort of unpleasant crunchy song that’s an absolute hell to your ears. Your quickening pulse only adds to it. You blink, the forest slowly starting to glow with the distinctive contrast of reflexive night vision. Mere moments ago the light was blinding to you, and now it’s entirely out of your reach. The gods must think this is a funny trick to play on you, huh.

You’re almost out of the woods now, the distant drone and rumble of thunder a foreboding tune. Silhouettes of the park continue to rise, metallic, grimy and jagged from afar. 

You think the purrbeast’s in the bag - the bag being your scot free escape.

That was when you saw him again.

He was standing there, just a few feet away. A threat to your plan. A _nuisance_. He would’ve been fully submerged by the darkness were it not for his bright blue glowing eyes, rays of opaline subquenched by the void. He turns, looking straight at you as his lights diminish and evaporate into bleakness. His gaze is a remnant now. The faint outline of his silhouette and his strenuous breathing are the only indications of where he is.

He’s calm. Rigid. For just a second. 

And then lightning strikes and he’s on the move along with it, too. He ducks down and rises again, this time, glowing with light equal to the moons. He flicks his hand and you’re forcefully dragged towards him. You have no control.

He whips your chin up with a delicate but fragile claw, and your eyes meet his. He pauses for a second, uncertain. You see his gaze shift down, next to the body of the indigo you were both sent to kill.

“That was my assignment,” you say with a snarl, angling your head away from him. He seems to have realised how unintimidating the hand thing was and quickly draws it back, squinting at you as he does.

“So you’re an assassin too? Curious.”

God, you have had it the way this nerd freak talks.

“Yeah, dumbass,” you say, baring your teeth when you take a pause. “No need to reiterate shit.”

The goldblood squints at you. His face is buglike, contorted heavily in a mixed state of amusement and confusion.

“Right. Well, I presume you saw my killing?”

He sounds kind of excited, now. You prefer duelling hand to hand, but hey, sometimes war’s about defeating morale. Even if you get killed in a hot second, you’ll at least dampen this nerd’s feelings for a second or two.

“Yeah, yeah, I did. I was about to strike when you fucking waltzed in with your fancy monologue. It was the most try hard-shit I’ve ever heard.”

His face immediately transforms into fucking yellow like a goddamn midas touch of shame. It’s fucking hilarious. The psionic grip on you loosens a little, enough for you to flex a hand.

“Enough of this! You’re a challenger to me, and I simply can’t have that. There can only be one of us who remains, and that shall be me.”

His psychic hold tightens and every part of your body immediately turns to stone. Glowing bubbles of varying shapes and sizes rotate between blue and turquoise, like bullets and needles, pointed directly at you. He starts to speak again.

“I barely know you, but I’m already beyond sick of you. Enough of these games.”

He sputters out the last word, jerking forwards with a woozy sigh. You guess all that flashy shit must’ve taken a toll on him. It does, however, also give you a golden opportunity. Hah.

You really don’t want to hurt this kid, but you don’t want him to hurt you, either.

While he’s still reeling, you take that second of withdraw to slap him across the face with all the energy you can muster. A sharp ringing noise sounds and you fall to the ground. The boy yowls and steps backwards, starting to babble. You shakily arise from your position on the floor. With a spin of your heel, you boost yourself up, already advancing towards him.

You almost regret doing that. Not for any moral reasons, of course. You just wanted him to shut up.

You’re about to grab him by the collar and knock him out when you notice just how utterly pathetic he looks. And not in the lame dumbass way from earlier, he genuinely looks exhausted. His face is yellow in fury, a bright colour, one you’ve never quite seen on a goldblood before. Or maybe since all the ones you've seen were all dead you can't really compare, who knows. Anyway. As you step closer you realise he’s holding back tears.

“Fuck, dude, I didn’t mean to hurt you that badly,” you say, awkward. After a pause, wherein he looks at you with a stringent, mean glower, you add, “Well, I did. But I had to. You were the one doing all that freaky psi shit.”

He mutters something, but he’s still too choked up to make it audible. He’s clearly no longer a threat though. 

Rather awkwardly you draw a hand over his shoulder. He hisses and crumples to the floor, to your dismay. And also, your complete and utter chagrin.

So much for comforting him, you guess. You step away to be edgy and brood, but your shit’s cut short.

With a drawn out sigh, he lifts himself up (quite literally, sparks fly and he gets on his feet by using his powers again) wearing a slightly calmer expression. The yellow flush is still there, and his eyes are open a tad too wide to create a comfortable visage and he looks half ready to scream, but he’s stopped sobbing, at least. Which is good. And at least he’s not attacking you now.

“That was stupid of me,” he insists. “Let’s reintroduce ourselves, okay? I was panicked, and I will admit, a little bit scared, and I don’t think I left a good first impression.”

You can barely stifle a laugh as you reply, “God, fuck it, alright. I’m-”

“Noooo!” he says, face curling into a complicated grimace. “We’re _restarting_. The entire thing, our first confrontation. We’re going to act like it never happened like this, like neither of us embarrassed ourselves. We’re not acknowledging the murder, either.”

Before you can even refute how important murder is, he lifts himself up, his blue pyrotechnic thingamajig carrying him into the undergrowth again. You look around, even more confused by this apparent second impression. Seems pretty shit.

Then, after like two seconds, he emerges once again, still levitating.

“Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Azdaja Knelax. I did not just fight over who, out of the two of us, gets to kill a highblood, which we were both sent to assassinate for some unknown reason. If a coincidental murder happened to have taken place, I apologise? I guess?”

A wild laugh escapes your lips. You can’t help it. His garbage yellow coat and his overdone presentation - which he’s clearly prepared for some event like this - and the way he’s shittily hidden by the shrubbery and branches. This fucking nerd is just too much. 

You regain yourself (as much as you can, he still looks so fucking stupid) and attempt speech. You decide to be a lot less sanctimonious.

“I’m Konyyl.”

Azdaja blinks, thoughtful. He’s still blushing.

“Konyyl,” he repeats, and he smiles. With a grandiose hand wave he falls down, and outstretches a hand to you. You take it apprehensively, amused. 

You completely snap out of the theatrics once you hear a low buzzing noise, comparable to a bee’s. Or rather, some type of wasp, considering it’s the sound of a fucking drone making its way to you. It’s still far enough to make a quick escape from, but that time won’t last long. The distant robotic whirring stings at your ears, burning like acid. 

Shit, the rain, too.

“This was fucking hilarious or whatever, but we need to leave right now. There are drones coming, and so’s the rain.”

His face falls instantaneously.

“What.”

“Drones,” you repeat, tired. “And also rain.”

“Drones and rain,” he says after you, adding a theatrical snarl to his words and raising his head to the sky. Its marvellous violet palette was splattered with clouds white and silver, the blots quickly spreading like running ink on wet paper. It wouldn’t be long before the showers started.

“Well, it was nice meeting you, kid,” you turn. “See you around.”

“Wait,” Azdaja calls to you. He’s fiddling with the cuff of his sleeve, his tails twitching nervously - oddly three, you notice, deviating from the two goldbloods usually have. He honestly looks like a confused wiggler.

“Strength in numbers and shit. Let’s hide together.”

“That’s not true. The drones will just detect us easier,” you interject, but break yourself off with a sigh. “Or...whatever, let’s just get out of here _now_.”

Azdaja sighs, but you can literally feel the gratitude dripping from his voice. You can only hope you’ve made the right choice. 

He hauls you closer to him with a weak grip. He would’ve almost snapped his skinny arm off trying that if his psionics hadn’t taken over. With a low hiss, determined, he pushes you both out of the clearing.

By the time you’ve both started to move you can hear the drones proper. Their shuffling is methodical and in perfect repetition. It was stupid of you to get distracted by this asshole’s shtick, you muse, the sound getting closer and closer. 

You feel Azdaja’s hand, shaking as he tries to keep his grip on you steady. He lets it fall into your hand, defeated, and squeezes it before increasing the speed of his psionics. You choke back a growl, not handling the pressure all too well. You’ll admit, though, it’s much faster than simply sprinting away. 

Odd thoughts make your mind scramble for logic. Odd thoughts of having a partner - you’ve been in need of one for as long as you can remember. Though your first technical kill with him was...Not pretty, at all, you do think he’d make a fine one. 

With just a little bit more foresight and planning involved, you two could be unparalleled.

Soon enough he lets both of you fall. He lands far more gracefully than you. Far more. You’re unceremoniously sprawled on the floor now.

Azdaja wastes no time. He hoists you up with a crackle and leads you out of the woods. The sky overhead is cloudy, a murky, smoglike olive. The air feels jagged, like a knife blade at your throat.

“We don’t have much time,” you mutter, staring upwards. Azdaja scoffs, “ _-obviously_ ,” and carries you past a trodden road. 

The hives here are stout and dimly lit, reminding you a little of from where you’re from. It’s not as cold though. In fact, it’s warm as hell. Almost sickeningly so.

Beside you, you feel Azdaja stiffen. Thunder crackles behind you and the wind hisses, breaking the heat shell and making you barely able to suppress a shiver. He seems to truly take in the lack of time left to find shelter now. 

So, he kicks himself forwards and you follow, as he slides past into a dim alleyway. The faint smell of burnt plastic hangs in the air, and it’s horrifically empty here. Still, there’s a roof. Which is enough for the time being. 

He drags himself to the wall and flops onto it, sinking down to the floor with a sigh. You take a much calmer approach as you sit beside him. By now, the rain is heavy, pouring down like thick honey. Gentle hissing noises of the ground outside being burnt echo into the air, and the slapping of the rain on the tin roof above send shivers down your spine.

Azdaja flinches next to you. You realise he’s trembling like a leaf, actually. He lurches forward every time a splash hits the roof, and his hands are covered in his blue psionic aura - presumably, to keep them from shaking. He repeatedly taps his foot on the ground, the movement hard and rhythmic. He’s overwhelmed.

You’ve never been good at this. Calming others down, that is. You don’t pause for anything. You don’t grieve. You’re the type to push through until shit becomes truly unbearable. And for you, they haven’t, yet.

But Azdaja? Why, this useless little twink’s absolutely surpassed his limit.

As if instinct, you seize his hand, wincing as an electric shock pricks your skin. Azdaja collapses against the wall uncontrollably, letting out a soft wail. You leave him for a second, and clear your throat, regulating your voice to be as gentle as possible. It’s kind of hard to do. But hey, you’re attempting it.

“Breathe,” you instruct. 

He halts, still. And then rattles in a breath. His eyes are wide and his mouth’s agape, and he’s fixated on you entirely. You’re not a fan of the attention you’re getting, so you look at him for just a second longer before you shuffle in your place with a displaced gaze, letting go of him.

He sniffles and wipes his face with his sleeve. With a groan he draws his lean legs in and wraps his whole form around them. He’s immensely small against the wall, nothing like the boy who killed a highblood in an instant earlier. 

You’re suddenly acutely aware of how cold it is. You let yourself shiver. 

“You got a problem with the noise?” you ask, shuffling closer to him. You can barely hide the nervousness in your own voice.

Azdaja mumbles a confirmation. He’s steady now, and not crying anymore, but he looks strained. You can tell it’s taking a lot of effort out of him to keep grounded. His lips are heavily pursed, as if to keep himself from saying something.

Among consolation, conversation is not one of your strong suits. But he needs some sort of blockage for the noise, some sort of distraction. 

What you come up with is pretty shit and nothing you’d say in any actual happenstance, but hey, what works, works.

“How’d you get to control your psionics like that, I’ve never seen a gold so experienced.”

“I mean, my manoeuvres are...deliberate,” Azdaja starts, eyeing you reluctantly. He gives you a weak smile, though, which you decide to take as a good sign. “You know my caste is bound to prestigious _ship_ _battery duties_ for the most part. The rest of us? Disposable. Forced to work rustblood jobs.”

He runs his claws through his hair, and pauses to retie his frizzed ponytail.

“I know it’s kind of stupid to assume this, but, I think, maybe, if I have decent enough control here I could...,” he trails off.

You wait for him to continue. He doesn’t, instead releasing little squawks of uncertainty. He starts to the tap the floor with his foot, the same nervous movement from before.

“You could what?” you press on, determined to not let him fall into the noise meltdown again.

“I could avoid either of those two frankly shit options! Cause, if I’m good enough at controlling my psionics, maybe they’ll enlist me in the front lines or something. To fight and conquer like other highbloods, I’ve earned it! Or just anything else! Quite frankly, I just don’t want to have to do those _useless_ fucking jobs.”

Azdaja looks ashamed, sinking his face deeper into his puffed up collar. He finally lets his hands crumple, limp. With an airy sigh, he draws a shaky hand to his forehead.

“And I am good. I’m great. Almost perfect, in fact, at controlling my psionics,”

“I can tell,” you say with an amused huff.

He grins at that. “Heh. But, yeah. I do. I’m capable of using my powers to fight. The problem is getting recognised.”

You go quiet, not sure how to reply. He’s right, and you’re not the type to bullshit. 

All you can say is, “Yeah, I feel that.”

And you’re sincere. You’re higher than him on the hemospectrum, but by what? A microscopic difference that turns to none in the eyes of a highblood. 

“Fuck,” you add, “I’m probably gonna get forcibly assigned ruffiannihilator fodder. It’s bullshit.”

“Isn’t that already what you do, in a sense?” Azdaja asks. You search his gaze for any sign of mockery, but he seems to be genuine. “Killing without rhyme and only a little reason, I mean. You off prey in the same shitty, messy way as them, even. You’d do just fine.”

Now, _that_ was intentional banter.

“Doesn’t mean I’m thrilled about it. And hey, I at least get the job done. It’s as they say; if it breaks some bones, don’t fix it.”

Azdaja laughs. It’s sharp and full of sting, much harsher than his regular voice. You start to laugh, too. And in all honesty, it’s fucking bizarre. But in this bleak, cold corner of the street, bordered by literal death rain on every conceivable exit, humour is welcome. In any way it comes, even if it’s shitty jabs at the rulers that could very easily kill you for saying this sort of stuff. Ah well. There’s the beans.

Once you’re both composed again, Azdaja leans back with a sigh and says, jovial, “well, guess we’re ungrateful, huh? Berrybloods are providing us a service, giving us esteemed, important jobs in Alternian soc-”

At first you think he’s coughed up a hairball or something, but you realise he’s laughing again.

“Wow you’re so right,” you add, almost joining him. “We should be thankful to our fish overlords, Azdaja. Seriously, stop acting like an idiot and straighten up, you want to leave a good impression on the V’s and the F’s."

He sputters, looking at you with a bemused expression.

“What, is the heiress gonna come crawling down this alleyway with her trident or some shit? Like, right now, just checking if we’re up to standard?”

“You don’t know what fuchsias are capable of,” you joke. “Just be ready at all times, Daja.”

Azdaja huffs, reseating himself and laying down wholly on the cold stone floor - he’s like a boy rug next to you.

“That doesn’t look comfortable,” you comment.

“Believe me, it’s not,” he replies.

You sigh, rolling your eyes. You pull him up by the scruff of his jacket and drag him close to you. 

Truth of the matter is, you’re cold as shit. And though you’ve never been this close to a goldblood - an alive one, at the very least - you know they’re some hot fellas. And as it turns out, you’re correct. Warmth spreads through your skin the instant you come into contact with him. You let go of his scruff and he settles himself close to you. He’s possessing an amused expression.

“You know, it’s stupid.” he says.

“What.”

“Us. Just being here together.”

“Mind explaining that?” 

You feel your face get hot, and you know for a fact it’s not from Azdaja.

Well, not from physical contact, at least.

“We were literally fighting to the death, what, half an hour ago at most? And we were meant to kill the same dude. Now we’re just shitting on the empress. I just think it’s kind of funny.”

“What, murder? Sometimes, I guess.”

“No! The way we’re here, together now. And...The way you helped me out, with...,” he trails off again, but quickly regains his thoughts and continues, “I guess I’m just saying thanks, for sticking with me.”

Your face unintentionally splits into a grin.

“Well, yeah, course. Killing someone and running away from drones brings people together.”

A pause.

“...ugh, and thanks for, sticking with me too, I guess.”

“You’re welcome.”

He sounds smug. The bastard.

Said bastard rests his hand on yours - it’s scrawny and shaky, but warm. The rest of him is, too. He curls around you tightly, like some sort of lanky, elongated purrbeast. His head is now on your shoulder and you can feel his breath on your neck. It’s comforting.

Azdaja’s started to tap his foot again in the same feverish way. You’re not gonna hold him at a gunpoint for it, though. It’d probably just make him feel worse. So, hesitant for only a second before doing so, you slide your hand under his chin, as delicate as can be. With a gentle tap of your claws on his cheek, he shakes and releases a relieved sigh. He looks beyond tired now. You just let him burrow into you as you repeat the motion another two or three times. 

He moves his head away from you to yawn.

That’s when you first realise he’s missing a horn. An ear, too, apparently - you’re aware most goldbloods have four, though you can only see three. With how much he’s bragged about clean kills and lack of blatant injury, you’d think the sentiment would apply to himself, too. You decide not to question it. You’ll get to ask someday.

It’s still cold here, though the rain has calmed a little. Not in a safe way. Just in a way where the _sound_ is pleasant and unobtrusive enough. 

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Azdaja buries himself a into your shoulder as lighting strikes, unleashing an explosive blast of noise and light. You crane your body to surround him protectively. 

The rain drones on.


End file.
